Random snipets of life

This is a post I started about a month ago...no better time than the present, right?

Since I seem to be in nesting mode, with an amazing amount of energy for someone who sleeps so little, I am finally getting around to it.

Baby boy is due in two weeks from today. I have kindly requested that he wait for 1) my mother's arrival on Tuesday and 2) the appointment i have with a prospective childcare provider on Thursday. His room is finished which makes TWO complete rooms in the house with nothing else to do in them except figuring out storage and buying random bookcases. Yes, the house has been moving along over the past couple months.

We managed to turn this:

De 2007-02 M - chantier

into this which is now Suzanne's room (which is bigger than our own!). Bamboo floors, white walls, green trim (she wanted a green room!)...but getting the floor level was quite a task since there was a 8 cm difference from one end of the room to another. Jerome used a mixture of cement, wood boards and lots and lots of elbow grease to get the floor more or less level. But you can still roll a ball from one end of the room to the other...nothing's perfect, right?

Suzanne is well aware that she'll have to share her reading nook with her brother. She's very amenable...for now.

As for other milestones, Lola has come to live with us. She is no Leon, but she's pretty cool anyway. Poor old Roger seems to appreciate the company and has been teaching her the world with an occasional bitch slap. We were catsitting her brother Charlie for the past

3 weeks; He left yesterday (thank God because he was pretty annoying and kept pooping in the shower), leaving Suzanne with a case of intestinal worms (thank you!) and me just trying not to think about whether I have them or not because I can't take anything (although my morning meal consists of raw garlic and carrots). I pity anyone who lives with more than 2 cats - it was a nightmare....

As for life in France? Well, I have been on official maternity leave since July 1st, and have no complaints. The only issue now is trying to find childcare for my unborn 6 month old son come January 2010 when I have to go back to work. We are on the waiting list for the municipal (and a couple private) crèches. But in typical French fashion, they won't tell us if we have a space or where until a month or so before then. Nice. So I plan on beginning the nanny search. Unfortunately, timing is all wrong for Suzanne's nanny so I have to find someone else. A tough act to follow. We thought we'd found someone but she was too expensive and unwilling to negotiate. By too expensive, I mean 4€/hour. It's laughable by American standards, especially since the CAF (Family service stuff) will help us pay and I know that some people in the US stop working since good childcare can cost the equivalent of an entire salary. But here, the official price range for a state certified, independent childcare provider (we are looking for someone who will have 3 kids and bring them to activities a few times a week which is what Suzanne had) costs somewhere between 2 and 4 euros an hour. Are you laughing yet?

And what does nesting bring? Yesterday it was a German plum cake and 5 loads of laundry. Today, it's fresh bread and a chicken tajine with preserved lemons and purple olives and only 3 loads of laundry so far (and it's just after noon). But somehow, the nesting doesn't help me file the papers that have been sitting on the desk for the past month...

As for me, well...pictures speak louder than words:

De 2009-07 Prés du Hem

The inner Leon

If you were an animal, what would you be?

But have you ever asked your animal what kind of person they’d be? I’m sure I’m not the only one who has imagined what a beloved pet would be like and look like in human form.
When I was a kid, I was scared to get undressed in front of my dog Brownie because I believed there was a little man inside her operating her like a marionette. I got over that, but still think of my pets as people…but different.
So when Leon’s human form came to me in a dream the other night, I was happy to be able to talk to him. I was happy to know his human form. But I was surprised because never would I have thought that my beautiful, tall, black cat with thick dark fur was a middle aged balding man who liked to play soccer because I imagined Leon’s human form to be more a dark-silent type. Tall, thick head of hair, nice shoulders, athletic build. Kind of like Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles. Now, you might believe that this is my subconscious telling me the obvious and preparing me to put him to sleep or you might believe that this is indeed Leon’s human form that came to me as Leon’s days come to an end. Whatever you believe about life, death and all the rest of it, I do think that Leon and I have a very special connection and no matter what form “he appeared” to me, it was a way for me to say goodbye to him.

Life...continues

Begin rant

Leon is still at the hospital, dying as far as I know, because the vet is a stupid asshole and doesn't communicate well. I really despise specialized people who think they are better than you because they are...specialists, whether they are computer, medical or culinary specialists. They still suck. Dr. Neuneuche, as Jerome's calling him (which is a play on words for someone who is stupid), no bedside manner (do vets have that?) and is a total prick.

We are waiting for the results of Leon's biopsy at the moment. But since his operation on Monday, he's been at the vet's doped up on morphine and fed through a tube. Jerome called the regular vet while I was on business in Copenhagen to get the opinion of someone we trust and like. Isn't this making Leon suffer more? He confirmed that we should wait for results because it may be treatable...

I called the surgeon and yelled at the assistant, something I never do. "My cat's dying for fuck sake (not in the original). I want him home!". She confirmed he wasn't dying to which I replied, "well yeah he is. He's got intestinal cancer!" But still, we have to plan around the asshole vet's schedule.

What's terrible is that tonight, at 6.30, when I pick up my Leon he won't be the same as the Leon who was purring and running around on Sunday, despite the vomiting he had. He'll be a shell of himself, wrapped up in gauze and wearing one of those collars. And his fat, furry belly will be bald and scarred.

And then, how do you tell your 2 and a half year old that her cat (her mom's cat actually) is dying? This morning when she asked, "where'd Leon go?" I replied that he went on a trip. By plane. to see Tonton Bo (Suz's godless father) in China. So what do I tell her when he's back in a different state...and then eventually leaves again since I'm not really counting on radiation or chemo as a treatment for my cat?

But still, the vet's an ass.

End of rant

Life

My pooper, my Little guy, my Leon ,my cat...he's lying at the vet's since yesterday, having had his stomach sliced open, a biopsy taken of his intestines to see what the lump is. The funny thing in France is that when you have labs to send in, the doctors give it to you to send. just add your check and put it in the mail. I looked at the doctor's diagnosis. Lymphona. My cat's dying...

Floda updated

Just for effect, here is a picture of Floda stuck on top of the brick wall across from our deck. I'm happy to say that he was sufficiently traumatized to not show his little face yesterday. Roger has begun self-mutilating however - I think we need to put him back on the kitty prozac - and Leon seems to have also developed some sort of psychosomatic issue since he's vomited 10 times since Floda's invasion. Great.

The story of Floda

This is Floda. Ok, it's not really Floda but does look like him, and that's actually not his name, but you'll understand all that in a little while.

When we were doing work on the house, I mean before we actually lived here since we're still and will forever be doing work on the house, we didn't mind visits from our local feline friends who we dubbed Jean-Claude (who we learned is actually named Sasha) and Floda, so named because of his reverse Hitler mustache (not exactly politically correct but look here for the inspiration).

When we moved in, and put up the bamboo barriers on the deck to keep our cats (and Suzanne in) and the local cats out, it created quite a stir. First of all, Sasha, Floda and the others couldn't get cross...for about 2 hours. Then we saw Sasha scale the bamboo, walk across the handrail tight rope style, and jump to the neighbor's roof. And this after he had already scaled his master's 10 foot high chicken wire fence. It was impressive to see this little monkey-cat in action and depressing to know that we could do nothing about it. But it was ok because Sasha is neutered and nice and has a home.

Then poor Floda, in an attempt to get to his buddy Sasha, tried different paths. We watched him one day jump up a 6 foot high brick walk. But then he got stranded on top and for about 12 hours he paced back and forth and couldn't figure out how to get down. A couple weeks later, we found him in our house and Jerome locked him in the basement, and starved him out after 2 days.

Now, these cats are more of a nuissance than anything because we can't leave the deck door open. Once in a while, we hear little feet on the stairs or crunch-crunching in the kitchen and know it's not one of ours. So they get spritzed with water (a trauma for Leon and Roger). And there are frequent moments of terror when I standing at the kitchen sink and look out on the deck at night and see a little white mustache and yellow eyes peering in.

But last night, Floda really did it. Roger was downstair sounding the alarm so I went down to check and there is little innocent looking Floda invading my house. I managed to get him outside in the garden, blocked off the kitty door, closed the garage door and went upstairs. At some point during the night, I hear banging and an unknown meow coming from downstairs.

When I check the garden this morning, Floda is nowhere to be found; the cardboard that replaces the missing window (which is 4 feet from ground level) is on the floor. That little fucker ('cause that's what I was screaming at him) managed to slip under the garage door, jump through the window and penetrate the house!

I went on a rampage, which Suzanne thought was funny, banging and spritzing all over the house. I decided I needed more light so went to open the shade when I see little white feet hiding behind the shade. I chased Floda with a chair back through the kitchen, under the table, where Suzanne was eating, and out the door. And in a very un-French moment, as he finally fled my deck, I screamed "don't come back you little fucker!" to the entire neighborhood.

I'm expecting Suzanne to add this word to her repertoire which already includes putain, crap and go away.

New life minus one

As we were spending our first night in the new house, exhausted from spending all day moving, unpacking, and chauffeuring Suzanne to a friend's, our cat Leon was busy exploring.

We were worried most about Roger in the move since he's quite a sensitive soul and has a history of depression, but we werent too worried about Leon since he's just a nice cat with no particular emotional baggage. Both "boys" were more than a little panicked as the apartment got emptier and emptier, Leon hiding on top of piles of boxes and Roger hiding behind curtains.

At the end of the day, we brought Suzanne to the apartment to show her it was empty and to pick up the cats. She giggled all the way to the house thinking it was funny having the cats meowing next to her. Then we let them loose in the house. Roger went straight for the heap of dirt in the garden; Leon checked out the stairs - a new adventure having never known anything except our apartment in his 5 years.

We finally got to bed around midnight; at 1:30 I heard a strange scraping on the zinc roof, a little like chalk on a chalk board. Roger was meowing so I got up in a slight panic and looked for the "boys". I couldn't find Leon but figured 1) he's not that dumb and 2) if he were that dumb, there was nothing I could do so went back to bed. An hour later, I heard the same noise and woke up in a panic, "Jérôme, both cats fell off the roof!"

We jumped out of bed and couldn't find either cat. I checked behind boxes, in the dirt heap and Jerome went outside. He came back carrying Leon in his arms - looking a little stoned, with bloodied heels and a gimpy foot. I went back outside to look for Roger but couldn't find him. Just then, he brushed by me - he'd obviously been sleeping.

On sunday morning, we took Leon to the emergency vet who x-rayed Leon's hips but couldn't find any breaks. So 125€ and one feline life less, we went back to the house and put Leon on a diet because if he's dumb enough to pull that crap again, we better be ready.

Fleas à volonté

You may remember Roger, my super intelligent feline.

In the past few months he’s grown lethargic, his belly’s been hard and he’s been less social. Since he’s been through so much in his feline life and since he’s clearly older than his 10 years and because he’s so fragile, we’ve avoided bringing him to the vet out for fear of the act-that-shall-not-be-named. A couple of weeks ago, Roger began self-mutilating again. It started when he licked his back raw. I immediately broke out the kitty Prozac which seemed to help for a couple days. Then, last Thursday I came home from work and the raw spot had turned into a bloody spot. At this point, Roger was also spending his days sleeping on a cardboard box, crammed between the closet and bikes (probably to avoid Suzanne). I immediately called the vet for an appointment on Saturday morning.

So Saturday morning, we loaded Roger into the cage (as Leon coward near by fearing for his own 9 lives). Jerome stayed at home working on the plans for the house while Suzanne took a nap. Jerome looked deeply into Roger’s eyes not stating the obvious.

I got in the car for the 5 minute drive to the vet’s which turned into 20 grueling minutes behind a garbage truck. As Roger expressed his angst and fear, I spoke softly to him telling him what a nice boy he is and how much we need him. He finally seemed to resign himself to the car and the cage and the unspeakable acts that awaited him.

At the vets, the secretary told me to sit in the waiting room. She then called to me and asked if this is Roger or Leon. Roger, I say which made everyone laugh for some reason. The vet then came out, pulled up Roger’s file on the computer and asked why Roger was there : raw spot, stomach problems and general anxiety.

We get into the vet’s office and he asks me to take Roger out of the cage. I tell the vet that I’m scared since Roger is very smart and gets aggressive. I don’t want him to be tranquilized so I slowly take the top off the cage and scratch his little head. For some reason, Roger is docile and lets the vet prod his stomach without a whimper or even a drop of drool. The vet asks if he’d eaten. Well, I say, only the tuna he had with his kitty Prozac. In that case, he needs to come back for blood tests but his stomach seems fine; it’s probably just fat. I mention the other cat who’s even bigger. Do you feed them à volonté (all you can eat) he asks? I tell him no, that in fact they don’t eat much at all. Oh, well they are castrated he says.

He then looks at Roger’s raw spot. I explain that he’s been acting weird and self-mutilating and that the kitty prozac doesn’t seem to be working. He asks if he has fleas. Well, no I say, the other cat’s not scratching. He lifts up Roger’s fur and shows me flea dust (ie flea shit). I suddenly feel like a terrible mother.

Relieved and embarrassed, I call Jerome and tell him the good news: Roger’s just fat and has fleas.

The moral of the story: before calling a man useless, make sure he isn’t castrated or simply an overweight fleabag.

Feline depression : it's no laughing matter

Some of you may be wondering how Roger's been doing on his meds. He did his two months of anti-depressants and intense cuddle therapy (ie sleeping on top of Jérôme). The end of the two months coincided with my business trip to Ireland so I can't be 100% that it's the meds working, but Roger is once again scratching his eyes out and licking his stomach and armpit raw (do cats have armpits?).
It looks like Roger will remain on the Zylkene for an unlimited length of time. That's €18,30 a month for our depressed cat. That's 70 diapers for Suzanne (yes, we buy cheap diapers but I swear the Label brand from Intermarché is better than pampers!).

When I went to the vet to get more feline meds, I said to the assistant that Roger is very smart and is probably doing this just so he can get some tuna every morning. But she either didn't understand my American humor or has seen too many depressed and self-mutilating cats in the past few days because she just gave me a look like I was evil incarnate for not taking Roger's condition seriously. Then she scolded me for not giving the cats heartworm pills for over 6 months.

The toy my sister sent the cats won't even cheer Roger up. But Suzanne really likes it. Poor Roger...I don't even want to think about what the move is going to do to him.

If Leon could speak...

Leon invades Suzanne's playpen and tries to steal her toys (May 2007)

I know people feel bad for poor Roger who's been on kitty anti-depressants for almost 2 months now - and doing much better by the way - but what about Leon? If Leon could speak, what would he say?

Leon's had a much easier life than Roger - born in the posh Vieux Lille into the household of a European Senator, we chose Leon when he was only a week old. At the time, I wanted a dog. I was new to Lille, lonely and wanted a companion. I settled for a cat only because I was desperate. When Leon first came to us (June 13th 2003), I was scared of him. But we quickly grew insperable. At night, Leon would nestle in my hair or sleep under my knees. He'd jump on my back when I came in from my morning run and lick the sweat off my neck. Jerome was jealous because Leon was clearly my cat.

As he got older, and once I got over my cat allergies, he and I began to spoon. At one point, Jerome decided Leon should not sleep under the covers with me but there was no preventing it (I'll admit I didn't try and stop it). When we watched TV, Leon would climb under the blanket and suckle my arm. When I filed my nails, Leon would come to sniff the nail file. When he saw his brush, he'd jump on the table and wait to be brushed.

Then it all went to hell. First, we made his favorite plant inaccessible because he was eating it too much. Then we got rid of his favorite chair. Then we adopted Roger when my MIL died. It took time, but they came to an arrangement. And then the baby came and it went from bad to worse. Not only did she take over his room and he could no longer bask in the sun on the windowsill, but he couldn't suckle my arms because the baby was suckling my breasts (and no, I did not offer to nurse him!). There was no space for Leon to curl up on my lap because Suzanne was there.

Leon, Suzanne and I take a morning nap (June 2006)

Recently, Leon has stopped coming to bed. Leon sleeps alone on the chair in the living room while Roger curls up on top of Jerome. Before I go to bed at night, or if I wake up in the middle of the night, I take Leon and force him to cuddle. He always stays for a minute or two, then runs off in a huff.

Poor Leon is suffering in silence. To add insult to injury, I recently cleaned my sweater drawer so there's no space for him to sleep in my sweaters anymore...Leon has ressorted to taking over Suzanne's space in a last ditch effort to get himself noticed.

So if Leon could speak, what would he say? I think he'd tell me that he feels lonely, unloved, jealous and extremely resentful of Roger and the baby. He'd ask me if we could go live somewhere else, just the two of us. Jerome tells me I should stop projecting but I can't help it. It's mother's guilt.

Leon making space for himself in Suzanne's toy basket (May 2007)

Todays purvy ramble

Me to my friend B, telling her about how Leon (my cat) and I spoon at night:
I like in the summer when I'm not wearing clothes and I can feel his fur against my belly. I mean, I wear clothes but...um, just against my stomach.

psycho-chat

This is Roger a week after we brought Suzanne home from the hospital. He's had a rough life and the last thing he needed was a baby to take his place.

We did not make Roger nuts. He came that way. Such is the downside of super-feline intelligence. Believe it or not, Roger is a feline Einstein.

See, we saved Roger from oblivion when my mother-in-law died. He was living in a house with a garden with another cat named Simon. When we sold her house, Jerome wanted to keep Roger. Simon, who was scheduled to be put down, now lives at my ex boss' in a large house with a garden. Poor Roger got the short end of the stick, but he's alive. Moving in with Leon (who he hated), into an apartment, being alone all day, and then a baby coming just made his state worse.

Roger opens the front door at night. Roger sleeps on top of us. Roger will only sit on on pieces of paper or books. Roger wakes up the baby at night. Roger will only drink from the bamboo plant. Roger watches people in the mirror. Roger self-mutilates (see above picture). Roger started kitty anti-depressants this morning.